


A Most Dashing Courtship

by ladylapislazuli



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Basically a 5+1, Courtship, Humor, M/M, Questionable attempts at flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 09:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladylapislazuli/pseuds/ladylapislazuli
Summary: Fandral the Dashing knew one thing, and it was this: he was irresistible.He knew all the tricks. The right way to angle his head, the right time to look alluringly from under his lashes, the right moment to reach out and brush his fingers against someone’s skin. He was charming. He was handsome. He knew how to get what he wanted.If only his attempts at courting Loki would go according to plan.





	A Most Dashing Courtship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neverminetohold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/gifts).



When Fandral first met Loki, he knew he was in love.

Those eyes, those cheekbones. That proud, princely demeanour. It was only Fandral’s first time in court - his father had finally consented to take him, after many hours of persuasion - and as soon as Fandral laid eyes on Loki he could not take them off again.

He had heard so much about Prince Thor, but little of Prince Loki. How could all of Asgard not be singing his praises?

The prince stood beside his royal mother, greeting guests as they entered the dining hall. He was pale and spoke rarely, but nothing about him was shy. His chin was raised, green eyes sharp and intelligent, his smiles contained and his bows perfectly precise.

Fandral was not yet fifteen, but he was struck by the realisation that this feeling, truly, must be what the songs sang of, the tales spoke of. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. He could not pull his eyes away from the graceful lines of Prince Loki’s face.

He was in love.

All of his father’s warnings went entirely out of his head. His mother’s pleas to be on his best behaviour. His older brother’s assertion that he could not be trusted at such an important event, that up until a moment ago he had been determined to prove wrong.

Fandral was in love, and he had to _do_ something.

When he and his father stepped forward to greet the royal family, Fandral stood before Prince Loki. He whipped his hat off his head (it was his best hat, and had taken many months of saving to be able to afford) and bowed as low as it was possible to go.

“I am truly honoured to make your acquaintance, fair prince,” he said loudly. He felt his father stiffen beside him, heard the tinkle of the queen’s laughter.

Unfortunately, in his enthusiasm, he stood too quickly. Having gotten as close to Prince Loki as the most liberal definition of “propriety” would allow, his skull was positioned directly beneath Loki’s pointed chin.

What happened next, then, was entirely predictable.

Years later, Thor would retell the story in exaggerated detail. Despite his assertions, the crack as bone connected with bone was not so deafening it silenced the whole hall, and Fandral did not strike Loki so hard that the king had to catch him, lest he be flung to the floor.

The impact was hard, though. Fandral’s skull exploded in pain, and Loki’s head snapped back far enough that the prince lost his balance, though simply stepping one foot back was enough to correct it. The king’s hand caught Loki by the shoulder, that part was true, but mainly due to the fact Loki’s eyes flashed with anger as he opened his mouth to speak.

The king did Fandral a great favour, that day. He dreaded to imagine what Loki would have said. It did not take a long acquaintance to discover just how sharp Loki’s tongue could be.

As it was, Loki held his tongue, Fandral’s father apologised profusely and Prince Thor guffawed with laughter. Loki rubbed his chin, which was decidedly red, and glared at Fandral the entire time as Fandral's father steered him away, his hand a vice on Fandral's shoulder.

At least he made a friend out of it. Thor found the whole thing so hilarious he sought Fandral out that night. They had gotten along like a house on fire, which was probably the only reason Fandral’s parents did not lock him in his bedroom until his hair turned grey.

Loki, on the other hand, seemed convinced Fandral had done it on purpose, and as quickly as Fandral made a friend of Thor he made an enemy of Loki.

Love was stupid, Fandral decided, and went adventuring with Thor instead.

\- - -

Fandral was definitely not in love.

He was, in fact, quite opposed to the notion itself. Love? What was love? An embarrassing waste of time that turned otherwise rational people into complete fools, that was what it was. An old wives’ tale spread by the prudish and the foolish alike.

He was also quite certain that his friends had stopped listening to him around the fifth time he made the speech.

“You’re not impressing anyone,” Sif told him with a roll of her eyes, but that would not stop Fandral from speaking in truths.

He was a rake. A free spirit. A dashing rogue, swooping in for the kiss then stealing off into the night.

If, and he meant _if_ , Fandral still found himself tongue-tied around Loki all these years down the line, that was only because you never knew when Loki was about to set fire to the hem of your cloak. He was a man around whom it paid to be nervous.

They were on their first adventure as fully-fledged adults, and the fact that Loki had decided to join them had no bearing on Fandral’s behaviour. He did not spend more attention on his hair and beard than he normally would when travelling. He did not carefully select his outfits so as to emphasise his slim waist. He most _certainly_ did not flourish his sword in dramatic and elaborate movements intended to draw the eye and show off both his strength and speed, no matter what Sif implied.

Fandral would, if pressed, admit that he had been infatuated with Prince Loki in his youth, despite the prince’s outright hostility towards him. They had been the foolish daydreams of a youthful mind, however, and had no bearing on his feelings towards the man now.

“Are you always so reckless?” Loki asked as he patched Fandral up, Thor hovering over his shoulder in an uncharacteristically anxious manner. A testament to how bad Fandral looked, he supposed.

“‘M no’ reckl’ss,” Fandral replied as best he could.

Loki raised his elegant brows (did he pluck them? Fandral thought he plucked them), and the cool waves of his healing magic finally withdrew.

“Loki, is that… it?” Thor said. “He still looks…”

“I’m not actually a healer, you know,” Loki snapped, washing his hands in a basin of water. “I’ve done all I can. He’s not dying, so what I have done will suffice until we get him home.”

“You should rest now, my friend,” Thor said to Fandral. Nurture did not come naturally to him, but Fandral appreciated the effort as Thor awkwardly tugged a blanket over him.

When Fandral closed his eyes, he could hear Thor and Loki walking back to the fire-side, the murmur of conversation as his other friends asked after his health.

Fandral began to drift off to sleep.

“I still don’t understand,” came Loki’s voice, loud and clear, “why he leapt into the path of a rampaging bilgesnipe. It’s not like I was in any danger, and there were no maidens around for him to impress. What was he trying to do?”

Fandral was saved from the fresh flood of embarrassment as sleep finally took him.

\- - -

Fandral was a humble man – one of his many, many virtues – and he could admit that when it came to the subject of love, his younger self had been a little hasty in dismissing it.

Yes, it still made people boring, and yes, its benefits were grossly exaggerated, but he could see it held some appeal. For others, not himself. He was far too busy wooing people to be in love.

With this philosophy in mind, it was none of _his_ concern if Loki sequestered himself in a corner with Lady Amora during a post-battle celebration. If Loki wanted to spend his evening in quiet conversation rather than celebrate their victory with his comrades like everyone else, Fandral did not care.

“Come, my friend, why are you sitting alone at the bar?” Thor asked Fandral. He clapped a friendly hand on Fandral’s shoulder, apparently oblivious to the way Lady Amora - dangerous, hot-tempered Lady Amora - was leaning over the table towards Thor’s own brother.

“I am trying to decide on what to drink next,” Fandral said. He stared at the bottles behind the counter, uncharacteristically out of sorts. Perhaps he had eaten something that disagreed with him on their way back to Asgard.

“Why decide, when we can drink all of it?” Thor said. “Barkeep!”

Which is how an hour later, Fandral found himself standing on the bar itself and dancing to the music coming from some corner of the inn. Some weedy fellow plucking a sombre melody on strings, but now he was thoroughly intoxicated, Fandral could make it work. He danced and whirled to roars of approval.

“Fandral! Fandral! Fandral!” his audience chanted, banging their flagons and howling.

Fandral reached out to a young lady in an alluring gesture before whirling away. Lay down on the bar and gyrated in a way he had seen on Niflheim, and the crowd roared louder. And then, to the delight of the crowd, he leapt from table to table, his feet moving like lightning as he wove between flagons and glasses and plates.

Missed a step, and sent a glass smashing to the floor.

“Fandral!” Loki’s shout of his name was decidedly different to those of the crowd.

Oh. Fandral had found his way over to Loki’s table. Funny, that.

“Loki, dance with me!” Fandral said. Loki only gave him a cold look and turned his gaze back to Lady Amora. Peering, by necessity, through the gap between Fandral’s boots.

“Forgive me, my lady. It seems we must conclude our business another time,” Loki said.

“Perhaps it is for the best,” said Lady Amora. She looked amused. “Quite rowdy company you keep, my prince.”

Fandral cheered – he was definitely rowdy! – but Loki looked as though he had swallowed a lemon. It was a common expression on him. Still, it did not suit him.

Lady Amora swept out. Even heavily intoxicated, the crowd parted, giving her a respectful (and very sensible) berth. Her temper was as legendary as her beauty.

“If you would be so kind as to get off my table, Fandral,” Loki said, “I would be much obliged.”

If he were sober, Fandral would have heard the dangerous lilt to Loki’s voice and scarpered. Valour was one thing, but Loki could hold a grudge like no one else.

Fandral was not sober. Instead of doing the sensible thing, he sprawled sensuously across Loki’s table – his legs hung off the end, but never mind – and batted his eyes at Loki.

“You just spoiled a business deal months in the making,” Loki snarled. “Get off my table, before I make you.”

Oh, Fandral thought. A business deal. Oh.

“You should smile more," he slurred. "Looks good on you.”

He did not remember what came after. Only that he woke the next morning with a cracking headache and a mad grin fixed on his features that lasted a full three days before Thor finally convinced Loki to take the spell off.

The one thing he did remember was the strange feeling of relief when he discovered Loki and Amora were attending to business. Making a deal, not… not something else.

Fandral had no intention of falling in love. But maybe, if there was a little flicker of _something_ in his heart… Perhaps he could consider it, down the line.

\- - -

Fandral the Dashing knew one thing, and it was this: he was irresistible.

He knew all the tricks. The right way to angle his head, the right time to look alluringly from under his lashes, the right moment to reach out and brush his fingers against someone’s skin. He knew how to stand to best effect, how to dress, how to groom.

He was charming. He was handsome. He knew how to get what he wanted.

He was also, in the present moment, very cold and slightly damp, but pressing on anyway. He strummed the strings of his lute one more time, checking the instrument was in tune.

He adjusted the angle of the feather in his hat. Swept his cloak back so that it draped artfully over one shoulder. Swung one of his legs up onto a conveniently low wall.

Then, he strummed his lute and began to sing.

“O come to the window, my darling, O come dispel all my sorrow…”

No wet weather could deter him. Drizzling it might be, but the fire in his blood carried him through. He sang loud enough to carry, sweet enough to melt even the coldest of hearts. 

For it was a heart he wanted, not merely a bed-mate. Rakish as Fandral was, he could no longer deny that he had held onto this flame for long enough. Could admit that yes, maybe, being in love was not such a terrible fate after all. (Not that he was _in love_ , per se, those were big words. Quite a commitment. But… well…)

This was the moment. The final act in the story, the beginning of something new. Poetic. Romantic enough that surely, _surely_ , it would work.

He was feeling very sure of himself, right up until the moment a flood of ice-cold water came thundering out of the window.

He spluttered and coughed, almost dropping his lute as he wiped the moisture from his eyes. The water hit him so hard, and in such a large quantity, that his hat was blown clear off his head. His cape shrivelled around his shoulders, his moustache drooped above his lips.

“Is that _you_ , Fandral?”

Fandral looked up to where Loki’s head hung out of his window.

“Yes,” he said. Nothing else _to_ say, really.

“What are you _doing_?” Loki’s expression was cold, eyes flashing with irritation.

“Serenading,” Fandral said. He held his lute up, gave it one last strum. It made a pathetic little twanging noise.

“You interrupted a very delicate bit of spell-work,” Loki said. Even in the dark, Fandral could see him roll his eyes.

Fandral lowered the lute. Stared at the extra-large puddle of water pooling around his feet.

“I was just…” he trailed off. He was drenched, now. Cold enough he was shivering.

“Go about your wooing elsewhere, if you please, I have work to do.”

“But…” Fandral said. Trailed off again.

“Honestly,” he heard Loki mutter. The window clicked as Loki pulled it closed.

Fandral picked up his sopping hat, tucking his lute under his arm so he could wring the worst of it out.

The window opened again.

“Oh, Fandral?”

He raised his head. Loki was back at the window.

“The dye should wear off in a day or two,” Loki said. Smirked, and disappeared back inside.

Now that Loki mentioned it, the skin on Fandral’s hands was, in fact, beginning to turn a lurid shade of purple.

Well, Loki had looked amused, at least. Though Fandral was undecided as to whether or not he should count that as a win.

\- - -

Fandral was not the type of man to go down without a fight.

Never mind that Loki had resisted him thus far. Fandral had plenty more tricks up his sleeve, a veritable arsenal, collected through many long years of dedicated study. If there was one thing he knew about wooing, it was that sometimes you had to up the stakes.

“I have an announcement,” Fandral declared, climbing onto his chair in the feasting hall.

He waited until heads turned to look at him, conversations breaking off and cutlery set aside as curiosity took over. If there was one thing Asgardians loved it was spectacle, and Fandral was ready to provide. At the high table, Loki looked up from a discussion with his mother.

Fandral ran his fingers through his hair to give it that dashing, tousled look. Slowly, once he was sure all eyes were on him, he pulled a rose from deep within the depths of his pockets. Groans arose around him.

“Good people of Asgard,” he said, unperturbed. “I am a man defeated by the sweetest plight.”

More groans. Someone muttered, “Not again,” and beside him Sif thunked her head down onto the table.

“Indeed, friends, I am in earnest. I can go no longer without speaking my piece, though I fear I have not the words to speak it. I am torn apart by a longing beyond words.”

“Stop talking then,” Sif muttered. Fandral ignored her, his eyes still on the high table.

Because Loki was looking at him. Setting aside his goblet, balancing his chin on one of his elegant hands. Their eyes met across the hall. Loki’s eyes, fair and ever piercing, so perfectly accentuated by his dark hair.

Fandral’s pretty speech flew entirely out of his head.

A few moments of agonising, petrifying silence. It was like falling. Like taking a step, and finding nothing to catch him.

Fandral jerked his gaze away.

“Friends. My dear friends,” he said, trying to buy himself time while he wracked his brain for what came next. He had quite forgotten - how could he have _forgotten_? He had planned this, had practiced it.

His eyes fell on the rose still in his hand. He was not up to that part of the speech yet, but he grabbed it like a life-line. “I have searched the cosmos for this rose. I have journeyed into the deepest depths and climbed the tallest of mountains, all in search of a rose to match the perfection of my beloved. Its petals, the pink of my dear one's lips. Its scent, the aroma of love itself. Its thorns, the chains around my poor, desolate heart.”

He chanced a look back towards the high table. Regretted it immediately. Loki was still looking. Still watching with those sharp, clever eyes, his face pale and impassive.

Fandral had to get himself together. He _wanted_ Loki to look. This was _the moment_. Nothing said one was serious about courtship like a public declaration of the fact.

“My fellow Asgardians, I am not a poetic man. But how else may I convey the depths of my longing? How else may I reveal my deepest, most heart-felt wish?”

Now that he was getting back into the swing of things, Fandral’s confidence was returning. It was a good speech, a pretty one, never mind that he had missed a bit towards the beginning. He had achieved greater things with less effort, so this was bound to work.

He gazed around him, making sure he still held everyone’s attention. Hogun watched him, grim-faced as ever but a faithful friend. Volstagg seemed to be exchanging far-reaching looks with Thor, who was seated at the high table this evening like his brother. Sif still had not lifted her head from the table. Loki… Loki was looking at his mother again. That was probably for the best, because without the pressure of his piercing gaze, Fandral grew bolder. Raised his rose on high, pressing a hand to his chest.

“My dear friends, with you as my witnesses, I declare that Fandral the Dashing has finally been overcome.”

“Hear hear!” said Volstagg, banging his flagon against the table. Not the intended response, but Fandral could hardly expect perfection from his audience. Minor hiccoughs aside, everything was going according to plan.

Except then Fandral glanced up at the high table again. Loki was stepping out of his seat. Offering his arm to his mother. Leaving, while Fandral was mid-speech.

The words died in Fandral’s mouth. He stood there, mouth hanging open. Watched as the speech’s recipient walked out of the hall arm-in-arm with the queen, without so much as a glance back in Fandral’s direction.

Even the rose seemed to wilt. Fandral stood there gaping like a fool, in front of every warrior in Asgard, and Loki was gone.

Everyone was _still_ watching, so Fandral rallied as best he could. Raised his rose, and thought fast. “To that sweet temptress, mead!”

Laughter. A warrior pounded the table and took a great draught of his flagon.

Fandral slid back down into his seat, trying desperately to look like a man who had made a grand speech purely as a joke.

Up at the high table, Thor gave him a considering look. Nearby, Hogun returned to his meal, and Volstagg gave Fandral's leg an affectionate nudge under the table.

Sif raised her head from the table. “Are you finished, then?”

“Yes,” Fandral said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded uncharacteristically meek. “I am finished.”

\- - -

Fandral was going to give it one last shot.

He was older now. Wiser, he liked to think. Old enough to know that he was not in love, but that the seeds of it had buried into his chest a long time ago. He _could_ be in love, and it was a terrifying ‘could’.

He could fall, so fast, so easy, if Loki offered fuel to that ember. Fandral was not sure what kind of things he would do, if Loki asked them of him. He was not sure he ever wanted to find out. He did not worry for injuries to his pride, for he had plenty of those to nurse from past attempts to impress Loki.

No, he worried because he knew, in his heart, that Loki was not a safe man. Would never be reliable, or steady, or predictable in mood or action. He also knew, though it felt somehow treasonous to admit it, that Loki was not entirely a good man. There was a darkness in Loki that even Thor shied away from mentioning.

Fandral was no fool. He knew he could not trust Loki, not entirely. But… he wanted to try, all the same.

So he went to him. No gimmicks, no guise, no theatre. He simply walked up to the door of Loki’s chambers and asked to be allowed inside.

He did, however, wear his best waistcoat, for some standards had to be maintained.

Loki received him in the outer room of his chambers. When he offered wine, Fandral accepted, more for something to do with his hands than anything else.

He was painfully aware of the door that led to Loki’s bedroom, just off to the right. Somehow, here alone with Loki, with the words he was about to say dancing on his tongue, the thought made his collar feel too tight.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?” Loki said, silken and charming in a way even Fandral could not muster.

Loki’s eyes, though, were endlessly sharp. Cowardly it might be, but now the time had come, Fandral found he could not look at them.

“I wished to speak to you in private,” Fandral said.

“Yes, I gathered that,” Loki said, with a dismissive wave of his elegant hand.

“I…” Fandral stopped. Opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

That piqued Loki’s interest. He leaned forward, and Fandral could not escape the feeling that he was a rodent in the den of a serpent.

“My dear Fandral,” Loki said. “I sense something is bothering you.”

Fandral found his voice again. Easier to speak in response than blurt out what he really wanted to say. “Not bothering me,” he said.

Except then his words ran out again. He set his wine to the side, using the motion to buy himself time, but nothing came.

Loki studied him. “You must forgive me for pressing the matter, but you do not seem yourself this evening.”

“I confess I do not feel myself. I am quite lost for words.”

“Fandral the Dashing, lost for words?” Loki’s eyes glittered, and Fandral could only hope it was with amusement.

“You see,” Fandral said. “For a while - for a long time now, that is, I have had certain… well, that is to say, I have felt...”

This was going terribly. It was a disaster. He could not even _speak_. And Loki sat there, aloof and - unless Fandral were entirely mistaken - suspicious, which was not how any of this was supposed to go.

“I must advise you,” Loki said, smiling in that enigmatic way of his, “that if you seek counsel on the subject of _feelings_ you were better, perhaps, to look elsewhere. I mean no disrespect, of course. You know I hold your friendship in the highest regard.”

 _Friendship_. Oh dear.

Do not panic. Do not panic.

“I do not want to be your friend,” Fandral blurted.

Any hint of a smile on Loki’s face vanished. He drew back, everything about him shuttering.

“I see,” Loki said.

“I - no, that is not-”

But Loki was already standing, setting his wine glass on a side table and about to walk away.

Fandral reached out and grabbed him by the hand. 

Loki stopped. For a moment, they were silent. Loki did not try to move further, and Fandral still could not find the words he wanted to say, for all he had thought them often enough.

Loki’s hand was surprisingly warm, given how cold Loki himself tended to be. Fandral had often admired his hands, Loki’s spidery fingers, both strong and dextrous. There were calluses on Loki’s palm from knife-play, though from a distance the skin looked smooth.

And Fandral still could not say his piece. Not _I admire you_. Not _I care for you_. Not _I want you, I have wanted you for so long._

“I do not want to be your friend,” he repeated instead, and he ran his thumb over Loki’s knuckles. Hoping that his touch would say what his words, apparently, could not.

When he dared a look at Loki’s face, there was honest shock written across it. As though, for all his own subtlety, Loki had failed to notice Fandral’s many ( _many_ ) less-than-subtle attempts to win his admiration.

“But you are Thor’s friend,” Loki said, and Fandral did not follow his meaning. Did not see what that had to do with anything, really, but apparently it meant something to Loki.

“I am,” Fandral said, “but you…”

This time, when he ran out of words, he knew what to do. He raised Loki’s hand to his lips, and pressed a feather-light kiss to his pale skin.

Loki blinked at him. Fandral could not read the emotions running through his eyes, but Loki did not withdraw his hand.

“You surprise me,” Loki said. For him, it was a great admission indeed.

Hope bloomed in Fandral’s chest.

“Will you sit with me?” he asked.

A simple request, but he knew that Loki would understand its meaning. To sit would be, at the very least, to consider Fandral’s offer. To open the doors of possibility between them. To speak further, both of Fandral’s feelings and, very possibly, Loki’s own.

To refuse would be to refuse the lot.

Fandral’s heart pounded in his chest. He waited.

Loki sat. And when Fandral pressed another kiss to the back of his hand, slightly shaky with relief, Loki smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for the prompt: "Fandral's very dashing and romantic attempts at wooing Loki that always end up in one disaster or another" which i think we can all agree is 100% fandral canon
> 
> the song Fandral sings is based on "Deh vieni alla finestra" from Mozart's 'Don Giovanni'. great song. much wooing.


End file.
